Almost immediately the whistle sounded, and the game was over.
Fillmore fell back and covered his eyes with his hands, biting his lip to keep from cursing the fates. He was white as death, and a comrade who was near fancied he must be suffering fearful pain from his injured hip. It was, however, mental anguish which drove the blood from his face, bodily pain being entirely forgotten for the time.
“Onslaw did it!” he whispered, with blue lips. “He knocked me out on purpose! I’ll get even with him if I live long enough! I’ll find a way!”
It seemed that Fillmore’s longing for revenge was destined to go ungratified for an indefinite period. Harvard played no second game with Hopkins that season, and Onslaw was a senior who would leave college before the two teams could meet again.
One warm spring evening Fillmore sauntered up McCulloh Street and paused at the steps of a students’ boarding house, on which a number of young fellows were sitting. He was hailed by several of them and paused to chat with his particular chum, Tom Hackett, who played centre on the lacrosse team.
“Haven’t seen you for several days to more than chirp at you,” said Hackett. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Home.”
“Must be plugging hard. You missed lots of fun last night. Party of us went down to the Monumental. Hot show there this week. Say, there are actually some pretty girls in the bunch. One is a peach.”
“Oh, they give me lassitude!” retorted Fillmore. “They’re too cheap. Picked out of the slums. When you get to talking with ’em, and see just how coarse they are they make you sick. I’ve been seeing something more interesting. Speaking of dark-eyed girls, I’d like to show you one stopping over at my sister’s, where I board.”
“What’s that?” cried Hackett. “Ah! so that’s why you’ve been under cover lately! Ah-ha! The cat is out!”